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The battlefield stretched endlessly under a blackened sky, the air thick with sulfur and dread. Harrow’s Reach, a jagged expanse of basalt cliffs and rivers of molten fire, was set to become a graveyard. On one side stood the army of Lord Azeroth, a war host of grotesque and terrible beauty, demons forged in hellfire, their blades etched with curses and their eyes burning with hatred. At the forefront was Azeroth himself, towering and implacable, his crimson armor soaked with the blood of past victories. His presence alone was a weapon, a force that made even his own legions tremble.

Across the field, the radiant army of Heaven glowed like a defiant sunrise, their golden armor gleaming even against Hell’s oppressive gloom. At their center stood the Archangel Aradiel, his great wings stretched wide, his blazing sword held aloft, a beacon of light in the darkness that threatened to consume them.

Azeroth raised his blade, the motion slow and deliberate. “You should have stayed behind your precious gates, Aradiel. This is no place for your kind.”

Aradiel stepped forward, his gaze steady. “Light shines brightest in darkness, Azeroth. Today, it will blind you.”

Azeroth’s laugh was deep, resonant, and cruel. “I think I’ll hang your wings in my private chambers.”

With a roar that split the ground beneath him, Azeroth surged forward, a crimson blur of power and rage. Aradiel launched himself into the air, meeting the charge with a streak of blinding light. Their blades collided with a sound like the world breaking, a shockwave blasting through the battlefield. Behind them, both armies roared, the ferocity of the two great warriors igniting their thirst for battle as they charged forward.

The two titans clashed again and again, their strikes shaking the earth. Azeroth swung Dreadspire in a wide arc, its dark edge trailing shadows, but Aradiel twisted midair, his wings carrying him just out of reach of Azeroth’s blade. With a downward slash, Aradiel struck at Azeroth’s shoulder, the angelic blade cutting deep into crimson armor, sending sparks and ichor flying.

“You fight well, angel,” Azeroth snarled, his voice dripping with grudging admiration. “Your death will be a worthy one.”

Aradiel backflipped out of reach, landing lightly on the cracked earth. “You honor me demon, but I have no intentions of dying.”

Azeroth roared and brought his blade down in a two-handed swing. The ground erupted in a wave of molten rock as the blow landed, narrowly missing Aradiel, who leapt into the air again. Azeroth’s crimson eyes tracked the angel’s flight, and with a snarl, he hurled a burst of hellfire from his gauntleted hand. The flames curled toward Aradiel like living serpents.

Aradiel twisted in the air, his sword a blur as he carved through the fire. “Is destruction all you know, Azeroth? Is there no light left in you?”

Azeroth grinned, his misshapen teeth like daggers glistening. “Destruction is the purest truth, angel. Creation is fleeting. Ashes are eternal.”

Their clash reignited with ferocious intensity, the air alive with the sounds of steel meeting steel and the crackle of divine energy. Aradiel moved with deadly grace, darting in and out of Azeroth’s reach, his strikes precise and relentless. He danced through the sky like a blade of light, each movement cutting deep into Azeroth’s defenses.

Chunks of crimson armor shattered under Aradiel’s assault, and dark ichor seeped from the wounds left behind. His blade found purchase again and again, carving into Azeroth’s arms and chest with growing frequency. The angel’s strikes came faster, each one a hammering reminder of Heaven’s resolve.

But Azeroth endured. He weathered the storm, his immense frame absorbing the blows as his crimson eyes tracked Aradiel’s every move. He waited, coiled and patient, biding his time for the moment when opportunity would strike.

With a guttural roar, Azeroth caught Aradiel’s blade mid-swing, locking it against the jagged edge of Dreadspire. A vicious twist of his weapon sent Aradiel stumbling, his wings faltering for a fraction of a second. It was all Azeroth needed.

He surged forward, his gauntleted fist crashing into Aradiel’s chest with the force of a falling mountain. The angel was hurled backward, his golden armor cracking under the blow as he slammed into a jagged spire of black rock. The impact sent shards of stone tumbling to the ground, and for a moment, the battlefield held its breath.

“You talk of light,” Azeroth growled, advancing on the fallen angel. “But you’re no different from me. You fight. You kill. You destroy.”

Aradiel coughed, blood staining his golden breastplate. He rose shakily, his sword still firm in his grasp. “The difference is why I fight. You destroy for yourself. I fight for others.”

Azeroth sneered. “How noble. Let’s see if they remember your name when you’re gone.”

He charged, Dreadspire raised high, but Aradiel met him head-on. Their blades locked, the ground beneath them cracking under the strain. Azeroth’s strength pushed Aradiel back inch by inch, but the angel’s resolve held.

“I don’t fight to be remembered,” Aradiel hissed, his eyes blazing with determination. “I fight because it’s right.”

With a surge of strength, Aradiel broke the deadlock, spinning to slash across Azeroth’s side. The blow struck true, cutting through his armor and drawing a bellow of pain and fury. Azeroth retaliated with a vicious swing, catching Aradiel’s wing. Feathers, golden and burning, scattered into the air as the angel cried out.

Azeroth seized the opening, grabbing Aradiel by the throat and lifting him high. “You talk of righteousness, but look where it’s brought you.”

Aradiel’s voice was strained but unwavering. “It’s brought me here, to stand against you.”

With a roar, Azeroth hurled Aradiel to the ground, the impact sending cracks radiating through the battlefield. The angels faltered, their ranks breaking as they saw their leader fall.

Azeroth raised Dreadspire high, the blade hanging over Aradiel’s prone form. “Your light dies here.”

But as he brought the blade down, Aradiel rolled aside, his sword lashing out in a final desperate strike. The blade caught Azeroth’s arm, forcing him to stagger back.

“You fight well, Azeroth,” Aradiel said, rising slowly. “But the light doesn’t die, it endures.”

Azeroth snarled, his patience fraying. “I’ll burn your armies to ash.”

“Not today,” coughed Aradiel. He spread his bloodied wing and clumsily forced himself into the sky in retreat.

Around them the battle raged on, but the angels’ ranks were breaking. Azeroth’s forces surged forward, their savage cries echoing through the abyssal plains. With Aradiel weakened and his troops faltering, the radiant light that had once defied the darkness began to dim. One by one, the angels retreated into the burning skies, their wings streaked with blood and soot.

Azeroth stood amid the ruins of Harrow’s Reach, his armor dented and scarred, the air around him thick with the stench of charred earth and angelic blood. His blade, Dreadspire, dripped steadily, the dark weapon still resonating with the fury of battle. For a moment, he simply watched the horizon, where the last flickers of Heaven’s light faded into the oppressive gloom of Hell’s skies.

“They always run,” he muttered, his voice low and venomous, more to himself than to anyone else. His lips curled into a grim smile. “But they never learn.”

He surveyed the carnage at his feet: wings, shattered swords, and crumpled figures strewn across the battlefield like discarded relics. The demons, now drunk with victory, roared in savage triumph. Their cheers rattled the jagged cliffs and sent shockwaves through the molten rivers below, a brutal symphony of dominance.

Azeroth turned to his army, his towering form looming over the chaotic host. “Celebrate this victory,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the din like a blade. “But remember, this is only the beginning.”

The demons howled their approval, but Azeroth’s gaze remained cold, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He felt no joy, no pride in the carnage, only the deep, unrelenting hunger that had driven him since the first war.

“They’ll come back,” he said, almost to himself, his voice tinged with something between disdain and anticipation. “They always do.” He tightened his grip on Dreadspire, its jagged edge humming softly in the silence that followed.

Turning from the battlefield, he strode toward the smoldering remains of his war tent. Inside, trophies of past victories loomed in the dim light, angelic weapons twisted into grotesque shapes, banners soaked in blood, and, most prominently, his infamous collection of angel wings. They hung like silent witnesses to his conquests, their once-pure feathers tarnished and scorched.

Azeroth reached for a broken wing, still stained with the glow of its former grace. He held it for a moment, staring at it with an intensity that bordered on obsession. “Each battle brings us closer,” he murmured, more to the wing than anyone else. “One day, there will be no more light to chase away. Only darkness.”

Outside, the demons’ cheers began to fade, replaced by the restless clamor of an army hungry for its next fight. Azeroth emerged from the tent, his crimson eyes blazing. His gaze swept over the legions that awaited his command, their monstrous forms shifting impatiently under his scrutiny.

“The war isn’t won,” he growled, his voice rising like a storm. “Not yet. But we will break them. Their faith. Their will. Their light.” He raised Dreadspire high, and the blade pulsed with dark energy, a promise of the destruction yet to come.

And as his army roared in response, Azeroth turned once more to the horizon, where the glow of Heaven’s retreat still lingered faintly in the distance.

“Run back to your golden gates,” he muttered, a grim smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ll be waiting when they crumble.”

The molten rivers hissed below as Azeroth began his march, leaving the broken ruins of Harrow’s Reach behind. The war was far from over, but this battle had left its mark—a scar carved into the fabric of the eternal struggle. And in the growing darkness, Azeroth stood as a figure of inevitability, his shadow stretching far beyond the battlefield.

For in every retreat, he saw not weakness, but the promise of their eventual return. And with every return, he saw the promise of their fall.

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